The Pattern
by darth suroth
Summary: It is the Fourth Age, and Amandil II is the King of Gondor. The Mouth of Sauron was never found after the War of the Ring, and he plans to follow the Agelong pattern and become the next Dark Lord.It will mean war, but is there a hero somewhere to win it?
1. Rumors and Shadows

**The Pattern**

-by Darth Suroth

**Disclaimer- **I don't own Lord of the Rings, Tar-Amandil (who is the third ruler of Númenor by the way), or Númenor, or anything you recognize from any of the books or movies. I wish I did, but that's another story for another day….

**A/N-** This story takes place in the Fourth Age, in other words, after LOTR. There is some background info that goes back to LOTR times, and some earlier in the Second Age in Númenor. If you don't know much about Númenor, you might be confused in some parts, but I don't think you'll be completely lost. The story hinges very loosely around Númenórean history, but don't worry, I mean 'very' when I say it.

**A/N-** Just to let you know, this is my first fanfic so…I'm doin' the best I can! Italics are thoughts, by the way. Oh, and please leave some reviews—let me know if you think this is a good idea for a story—constructive criticism PLEASE…and here we go!

**Chapter I: Rumors and Shadows**

Tar-Amandil was a great and righteous king. Under his rule, the state of Númenor enjoyed lasting peace and prosperity. The relations with the elves were good—Tar-Amandil often met with Gil-galad to make sure the ties were still strong. War and hardship were foreign ideas to the people, and they were growing in wisdom and joy. The greatness of Númenor was at its peak.

Unfortunately, Amandil II did not live in such times.

Year 1309 of the Fourth Age  
Gondor  
Reign of King Amandil II

The King paced anxiously across his private chambers. He had never thought that bearing his title would be easy, but he had not been prepared for this. Not that anything had gone wrong, that is, not yet. But it was the 'yet' that worried him.

There had been rumors—no, not rumors—reports of things happening that should not be happening, that should not have happened ever again. Reports of orcs gathering once again in the east, reports of goblins in the Misty Mountains, reports of a Shadow in Mordor—in Mordor, that had been so closely monitored and watched—in Mordor, the name of which still filled men's hearts with fear. _Rumors of a Shadow in the east. Whispers of a nameless fear._

Amandil stubbornly drove that though out of his head. The last time there had been reports like these was right before the start of the great War of the Ring. _Rumors…Whispers…_ Amandil decided to focus on something else.

He continued to pace. Back, forth. Back, forth. Bed, sofa. Bed, sofa. Back, forth. _Shadow…nameless fear…_

_How could something like this go unnoticed until now? We were so careful…_ Amandil stopped and rubbed his temples. Maybe it was nothing, just another orc uprising, just and untrained rabble force. _Gathering in the east…_ He mustn't jump to conclusions. He mustn't! _A Shadow…_

The King sat on his bed and sighed. How does one handle situations such as these? This was a question that, as of yet, he had no answer to.

**A/N-** I haven't really worked out whether Amandil II would be Aragorn's grandson or great-grandson, because I don't know how long they would live due to their Númenórean bloodlines…so I'm just gonna say to you that this is probably his grandson. And I am very sorry to say that there will be no elves in this one, folks, they're all long gone by this time. This takes place in the Age of Men, so it will be primarily the race of Man, obviously. So, hope you enjoyed it, make sure you check out the next chapter, it gets better than this…and review!


	2. The Mouth Grins

**Disclaimer- **I don't own or make money off of The Lord of the Rings, the Mouth of Sauron, Uruk-hai, Haradrim, or the Black Númenóreans. Or anything else you might recognize from anything. I did come up with the name Ar-Taravorn, but I did use Elvish elements (tara-high, noble, or royal; vorn-black) to create the name, and I used the traditional title of the Númenórean Kings after whoever it was that stopped using the High-Elven title (I didn't feel like looking it up). So I don't know if I have to not own that. Wow that was pretty long. THE PASSAGES IN ITALICS AND QUOTATIONS ARE DIRECT QUOTES FROM THE RETURN OF THE KING BY JRR TOLKIEN AND DO NOT BELONG TO ME IN ANY WAY WHATSOEVER. Someone please tell me if I need to do more than that to make it legal, because I will and I don't want my story to be deleted or whatever they do to people who break the rules.

**A/N-** I just want to say in advance that I apologize for the shortness of these chapters, later ones will be longer. These first ones are just kinda like introducing characters and ideas, I'll get into the actual plot pretty soon. There actually will be a main character who is pretty awesome and stuff, but I keep putting him off because I'm having trouble thinking up a name for him. I'm trying to use Elvish elements like Tolkien, but it's harder than it looks.

**Chapter II: The Mouth Grins**

_"The middle door of the Black Gate was thrown open with a great clang, and out of it there came and embassy from the Dark Tower. At its head there rode a tall and evil shape, mounted upon a black horse… The Lieutenant of the Tower of Barad-dûr he was, and his name is remembered in no tale, for he himself had forgotten it, and he said, 'I am the Mouth of Sauron.'"-ROTK_

The Mouth rode now on his ghastly steed, with its face like a skull and demonic fire shining from its eyes, southward. The host of Uruks that accompanied him ran tirelessly behind him without a sign of weariness. He now rode south to gather his real army: an army of men. He rode to rally the Haradrim, the Southrons, to his banner. They had fought beside Mordor in the War of the Ring, so long ago now, and he was sure that they would fight again. A little coaxing might be needed, yes, but he knew they would fight.

The Mouth grinned, and his eyes sparkled maliciously under his tall helm. He had survived. He had survived and the fool Gondorians didn't even notice. They had never found him after the War, and, in their blindness, they never even thought him a threat. "Not a threat. The fools!" His grin slowly faded into a twisted snarl. The Uruks beside him paid no mind; their leader was well known for talking to himself and getting angry at seemingly random times.

All these years the Mouth had simply been hiding deep in the ruins of Mordor, waiting for his chance to come. And it had come. Yes, he was old now, very old, but he would last for years to come and his chance was here. The Gondorians had begun to slack off on their watch, just as he knew they would. They hadn't noticed the slow trickle of orcs and Uruks into the east until it was too late. Much too late. He was no "Mouth" any longer. He was Ar-Taravorn, the new Dark Lord.

For now, in the Age of Men, he was in the process of gathering his army of men. Orcs were not as useful now, there were not enough of them. Most had been killed off in the aftermath of the War. But men… The grin came back, full force.

The little army headed by the Mouth moved on, to Harad, to the start of an empire. Black banners flapped in the wind, but they did not show the Evil Eye any longer. Instead, they displayed a five-pointed white star in a circle: the Star of Númenor—upside down.

_"It is told that he…came of the race of those that are named the Black Númenóreans; for they (lived) in Middle-Earth during the years of Sauron's domination, and they worshipped him, being enamoured of evil knowledge. And he entered the service of the Dark Tower when it first rose again…and he grew ever higher in the Lord's favor; and he learned great sorcery…and he was more cruel than any orc."-ROTK_

**A/N- **I've noticed with the few people I have had read this before I posted it that the don't seem to get the point of the last two paragraphs, so I'm going to explain it here, because it's really a cool idea to get. See, Tolkien always said he meant for LOTR to be like an alternate history/mythology for England, so I decided to continue that idea by putting in connections to the modern world in my story. The last two paragraphs are supposed to be a connection to modern-day Satanism. The flag insignia is the Satanic Star, and this is supposed to be the start of the belief—with the Black Númenóreans. Worshiping Sauron, sorcery, being "enamoured of evil knowledge," and the like. That this passage was actually in the book really surprised me—like this is what Tolkien meant it to be if he continued it. I really kinda have a strong belief that this is what would happen if Tolkien wrote about the Fourth Age at all—the Pattern of the Dark Lords would continue. Then again, I think that's just me being opinionated and over-imaginative, lol. But it's still cool just to think about. If anyone agrees with me on this, tell me, and if you don't tell me even more 'cause I wanna hear about it. SO REVIEW! The point of me posting this story was really just to see what people thought about this idea. Yeah. Anyway, keep reading, the next chapter might take a while, but it'll get here. Sorry about the really really long ANs, lol.


	3. The Making of Legends

**Disclaimer-** Guess what? I don't own the Lord of the Rings! Wow! So basically, if you recognize anything from the books or whatever, it's not mine. I did come up with most of the names in this chapter, though.

**A/N-** Hey, thanks to the people who left me some reviews, I really appreciate it. It makes me feel better that there are people out there who are just as nerdy as me, lol. Haha, that was not meant as an insult. Oh yeah, and a special thanks to Ande, for leaving me some awesome Constructive Crisium (you weirdo). Oh, and sorry about the delay in posting this…I was just busy—no, I was just lazy, lol.

Chapter III: The Making of Legends 

Aralith trudged alongside the rickety wooden cart stocked with a variety of vegetables down the well-worn path to Minas Tirith. His father Aron was up ahead with the other cart, head held high and taking long strides, as if he were a High Lord with business to do instead of an old farmer taking vegetables to sell in the city. He half-turned his head and called, "Aralith! Hurry up! I want to sell these all before tomorrow night! The way you're goin', we'll _get_ there tomorrow night!"

"All right, you don't need to scream," Aralith replied just as loudly. They had been walking all day in the hot sun, and they were both a bit testy. Aralith glowered over at the shaggy brown pony that was pulling the cart, wishing he were doing anything rather than putting up with this. Aralith reached out to tug on her harness. "Come on, Elaine," he murmured, "just a little longer."

Aralith lived with his mother and father on a small farm in the outskirts of Osgiliath. They brought their goods once a year to Minas Tirith, where they could get higher prices for the same amount of produce. He hated going to the city; his father took pride in being Gondorian, and somehow latched on to the belief that when he went to the City of Kings, he should act just as haughty as if he were one himself. In other words, he would be a total jerk. And there was the fact that Aron was obsessed with war, or at least fighting in one. He dreamed of war it seemed, just so he could die for his country. Minas Tirith brought that out, too.

Aralith shook his head with a frown on his face. He loved his father, but they just did not share the same dreams.

Aron was tall and broad shouldered, like Aralith, but his hair was mostly gray and his face was creased with worry lines. In his youth, he had had jet-black hair and frosty blue eyes, and a good physique, too. He remembered going to dances and being asked to dance by almost every girl in the place, and winning archery and swordsmanship contests every year. But those days were gone now, and it would do no good to spend his time reminiscing about the past. He had vegetables to sell.

He glanced back at his son, not little anymore; he was already almost 18 years of age. Aralith reminded him of himself, back in the good old days. His black hair and strong figure were proof enough, but the boy had his mother's eyes, sparkling green under the shock of hair that lay across his forehead.

Aron sighed. He had always dreamed of becoming a warrior, but in these times of peace there was no special need for them, and now here he was: just a tired old farmer. The closest he ever got to his old dreams was when he went to the city to sell his vegetables. Still, when he was a boy, a blacksmith named Gedor who lived in Osgiliath taught him to use a sword. In turn, he had taught Aralith the same in hopes that he might get to use the skill. He was set on giving Aralith the best of everything. He grinned. Gedor had had a special gift. He had no doubt the boy could match even the elite Fountain Guards in a sword fight.

Coming back to reality, Aron hurriedly wiped the grin off his face. He had vegetables to sell.

Father and son both stared down the long dusty road toward that great city of Minas Tirith. The city was visible in the distance, shining in the late afternoon sun. The old storytellers in Aralith's village had always told of a time when the city had not been so grand, when the army was weak and the city itself in sad disrepair. The Steward of that time had been driven insane by his pride: he had attempted to use one of the fabled Palantiri, which quickly turned his counsel to madness. Whatever the old storytellers might say, Aralith found it near inconceivable that the City of Kings had ever been anything remotely weak or less than grand. Now, as the pair gazed into the distance, the White Tower reflected the low sun's rays, an ancient symbol of the power of the Númenoreans.

A long way off, a quite different pair of eyes gazed at a quite different kind of tower. Dozens of towers, in fact. Dozens of war towers mounted on the backs of dozens of mumakil. The dark, scowling eyes were set in a dark, swarthy face painted with a fierce red war paint that marked him clearly as the leader of the immense army gathered around him. That is, it did if you failed to notice his crimson turban richly embroidered with gold designs or the elaborate ceremonial wooden fan mounted on his back first. His long black robes were also embroidered, and the weapons he carried were worked with even more gold. But the most obvious of all of these clear signs of rank was his traditionally ornate halberd, the staff adorned with gold bands and the blade inscribed with flowing elvish script. At the top of the staff near the blade a large ruby was set.

The ruby glinted in the sun, glaring in the dark man's eyes. He blinked, adjusted the staff so he could see, and scowled even more. The ruby had been an heirloom in his family for years. The legend went that one of his ancestors had taken it as a war prize from a High-elven King's fortress sometime in the First Age. Whatever the gem's importance may be, he only saw it as the most prestigious and valuable sign of his rank.

The man surveyed the vast army before him from his high vantage point. The huge mumakil lumbered amidst a sea of soldiers, tall war towers swaying majestically on their backs. The soldiers were arrayed in neat formations across the plain below him, all armed heavily with spears, swords, or bows. Many wore black veils that cover all but their eyes, making them impersonal and quite intimidating. The Haradrim were a people born and bred for war.

"My Lord Zarahir." A lesser soldier knelt on one knee by the man, one hand on the ground, the other at his sword hilt. Zarahir turned slowly, careful not to show he had been startled by the other man's sudden appearance.

"Rise, Captain." His voice was cold and flat, showing no emotion whatsoever. This was his strategy in leading an army; intimidation was key.

The captain stood and shifted nervously in a most satisfying manner. "The High Ar-Taravorn summons you to his camp, my Lord. He wishes to speak with you."

Zarahir did not reply, but instead scowled even more darkly than before. Ar-Taravorn, the new warlord who had come seeking aid overthrowing the alliance of the nations of Middle-Earth. The fool man with the fool name that made no sense, who came expecting absolute power straight away, and thinking he could order around the Haradrim forces as he wished. The most offensive was that he had come offering promises of power and glory beyond reckoning, as if that could sway the Haradrim leaders. The Haradrim were a stronger people than that, to be that desperate for power to plunge themselves into a large-scale war. Besides, the Haradrim's alliances were already set with Rohan and Gondor, the very nations Ar-Taravorn wanted to destroy.

For a brief second Zarahir's permanent scowl was broken by a bewildered blink. _Then why am I here? What are we doing? _As soon as the thought entered into his mind,it was quickly pushed aside by an overwhelming urge to follow Ar-Taravorn and make the Haradrim the greatest nation of war in this Age. The notion filled Zarahir to the point of bursting; he could hear it in his mind like a roaring in his ears. His scowl returned, and his face was painted with determination to obey his impulses. _What was I just thinking?_ For some reason, he could remember vague emotions of confusion and anger. Deciding to ignore it, he turned his attention back to the Captain in front of him. "Tell him I will be there shortly, Captain."

"Yes, my Lord." The Captain turned sharply, and walked stiffly back the way he came in a proper military fashion.

Zarahir scowled, and his eyes shone with a dangerous light. He _would _make the Haradrim be the most renowned nation in Middle-Earth. Ar-Taravorn would lead them to glory, and Rohan and Gondor would kneel at their feet.


	4. The Power of The Mouth

**Disclaimer- **I don't own or make money of LotR! Gosh! Stop asking! Oh, and compulsion is Robert Jordan's thing. From the Wheel of Time series. But I changed it slightly anyways.

**Chapter IV: The Power of The Mouth**

Ar-Taravorn sipped his wine and sighed pleasurably, a slight smile touching his lips. It really was quite amazing how quickly you could shift from refugee to king. His high-backed wooden chair was piled high with silk cushions and ornate rugs from Khand covered the ground of his tent. Two dark Haradrim women dressed in all white stood at either side of him, ready to do his bidding.

Taravorn shifted in his makeshift throne. The weather in Near Harad was warmer than he had expected, and muggy. His long, priestly, black robes were stifling. The air seemed still and stagnant. Grimacing, Ar-Taravorn waved vaguely in the direction of a man in the corner with his finger, and the musician started to play his harp without delay. Calming his seething mind, he let out his command. _Wind._

A gust of wind abruptly threw back the flap of his tent, revealing two banners buffeting crazily in the now windy day. They bore his insignia of course, all black with the white star in the center. Startled, the two serving-maids shifted uneasily. The musician faltered, and the harp let out a grating plunk. The musician glanced up at the Dark Lord, sweat beading on his brow. The flap settled closed again as the wind died down, and Ar-Taravorn rose from his seat, sneering menacingly at the musician. He had extended his hand, mouth half-open as if he were going to speak, when he paused.

Suddenly and distinctly, the self-proclaimed Dark Lord was aware of Zarahir on a nearby hillock. Confusion and anger stabbed out of him towards Taravorn like knives, dulled partly by a rapidly growing resistance to Taravorn's _gorlûm_ spell. The _gorlûm_ was known as compulsion in many parts of Middle-Earth, its effect being to overpower the victim's will, forcing them to do whatever the sorcerer wished. In the Third Age, the wizard Saruman had the _gorlûm _down to an art, to the point where merely hearing his voice was a spell in itself. Taravorn calmly strengthened his hold on the veteran warlord's mind, quietly cursing in his annoyance at the strong will of the other man.

The slightly disturbing event over, Taravorn returned to the present where he found that the musician had already resumed playing. The serving maids stared at him, stark terror painting their faces. He abruptly realized that he was still frozen in the same position, one hand out and his face twisted in a snarl. He smoothed his face, trying to look as sane as possible. By the looks on the faces of the serving maids, he knew he failed.

* * *

Zarahir paused outside of Ar-Taravorn's tent. It was more like a pavilion, really. By far the biggest tent in the camp, it was pitch black decorated with gold trim and tassels. Tassels! It made Zarahir disgusted just looking at it. A tent like that emanated pride. Taravorn had not earned the right to that pride, yet. _It will be his downfall nonetheless, _Zarahir mused. _I just need to prevent that until he has given me Middle-Earth. For now, the only path to victory is to keep him from making stupid mistakes._

Zarahir did not trust Ar-Taravorn in the least. Even though he was originally from Far Harad, where Black Númenóreans had been in control for the majority of the Third Age and even into this Age, this particular Númenórean was distinctly different. He was ignorant and proud, two traits that should never be mixed. However, Zarahir knew that all of his chances of defeating Gondor lay with this fool, and he was not going to throw this opportunity away.

Zarahir quietly sighed and lifted up the flap of the tent.

* * *

Ar-Taravorn was just starting to succeed at restoring his mask of not-quite serenity when Zarahir entered. The giant of a man ignored Taravorn's slightly twitching face and silently gave a slight bow, barely more than a nod of the head. "I have come. What is it?"

Taravorn wanted to snarl at this lack of respect, but he didn't. _I have spent too long surrounded by orcs, _he reflected. _Maintaining my composure was never this hard before._ Instead he smiled. "I have sent for you to inquire how much longer you expect to wait before your army is gathered."

"No more than a few days," Zarahir paused, watching the sorcerer. "Forgive me, but Harad is quite a large region."

Taravorn cleared his throat roughly and eyed Zarahir. It would seem that this "warlord" was too proud to show any deference. He said nothing.

In order to break the silence, Zarahir continued. "There is still some cavalry coming up from Far Harad, near the port of—"

"Ah, yes, more cavalry," Ar-Taravorn mumbled, uninterested. "How much cavalry could you possibly have? Who do you think you are, the bloody Rohirrim?"

"The Haradrim have always been known for—"

Taravorn looked up, seemingly surprised he had spoken aloud. "Did I ask you to speak?"

Zarahir ground his teeth.

"No, the true reason I have summoned you here," the Dark Lord leaned forward, the tattoos on his face moving as he narrowed his eyes, "is to tell you that once you are done here, we will be heading east."

The dark man started, his eyes stark against his nearly black skin as he glared at Ar-Taravorn. "Why east?"

"Because there, we will gather the Easterlings to our banner. We have a mighty army here, but the union of Gondor and Rohan is strong. I will not take any chances. The easterlings are a strong and hardy people, who share our hate for Gondor. Remember the Wainriders?" The Wainriders were a legendary confederation of Easterling tribes who almost destroyed Gondor in the Third Age. "And the Balchoth?" Another confederation similar to the Wainriders, the Balchoth had come even closer to destroying Gondor. They were only defeated when Eorl the Young suddenly appeared with his Éothéod out of Rohan.

Ignoring the trivia questions, Zarahir growled, "You said the Haradrim would be fully responsible for the fall of Rohan and Gondor. You said the glory would be ours and ours alone!"

"You mean the glory would be yours," Taravorn corrected. "And did I really say that?"

"Yes!"

"Then I lied. In three days time, we will be heading into the lands of the Easterlings. If you no longer wish to aid me, I will find another willing to lead the Haradrim. It should not present any difficulties." The sorcerer paused long enough to glance at the renowned warlord, who stood rigidly in the center of the tent. "Yes, I thought you would stay. Now that you are informed, you may go."

Teeth clenched, and sweat glistening on his dark face, Zarahir muttered a strangled, "Yes, my lord," before striding quickly out of the tent.

The Dark Lord almost laughed when Zarahir was gone. That task had not even required the use of the _gorlûm._ With both the Haradrim and the Easterlings behind him, his force would be nigh on impossible to defeat. Nothing could stop him now.

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the wicked long time I took updating this. I know, I'm a horrible person. I've been kinda busy and stuff, I'll try to update more often. Oh, and remember, REVIEW! lol.

Darth Suroth you will serve and obey


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